Wait for It

by Mariana Zapata

  Before I knew it, I had reached up to wipe at my eye with the back of my hand.

  How was it possible that I lived in a world where my brother didn’t exist anymore?

  “You all right?” Trip asked, reminding me he was in the room.

  I nodded at him, distracted and sad at the same time. “Yeah, I just…” I forced myself to clear my throat. “I just remembered his dad, is all. Does he have kids?” I forced myself to ask, not able to explain what had gotten me so upset in more detail. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d somehow found out that the boys weren’t my biological kids or not, but I didn’t want to bring it up right then.

  “Dallas?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Trip shook his head, his mouth going firm for the first time since I’d met him. “No.” He took a swig of his beer and stayed quiet for a moment. “Why, you interested?”

  “No.” God, why did everyone seem to think I was trying to—

  “I’m fuckin’ with you.”

  I got mad all over again, remembering Dallas admitting he thought I was flirting with him all because of some polvorones and a few phone calls. My panties needed to get out of the wad they were in and remember he’d realized how stupid he’d been. Because he’d been real stupid to think that.

  “Don’t take it personal, honey. His ex, or soon-to-be ex, whatever the fuck she is now, did a real number on him. It doesn’t have nothin’ to do with you,” he explained.

  I was being sarcastic when I asked, “What? She was a single parent too?”

  “Uh, yeah, she was,” was the remark that suddenly had me feeling like a giant schmuck. Shit. I guess I couldn’t blame him for being hesitant with me. “Don’t worry about it though. He knows he ‘isn’t your type.’” He chuckled at that last bit, and I frowned. “You actually got a type?”

  “Yeah, from the sound of it, I do now,” I said, facing the cast iron skillet popping on the stove once more. “High school virgins.”

  Trip and I laughed so hard it filled the time until Dallas and Louie came back with two plastic grocery bags filled with a console, two controllers, and multiple games. I hadn’t bothered ordering Josh and his friends pizza yet. The last time I had checked, the cupboard’s two bags of chips, one container of cookies, and six sodas had already gone missing. I could force food on them later. Trip disappeared into the living room as I finished cooking the first two steaks.

  While I kept an eye on the meat and checked the potatoes in the oven, I thought about Dallas and his single-mom-ex for all of a second before starting a mental list of what I needed to get done before Josh’s official birthday party. I was in the middle of flipping the steaks again when I heard the distinct sound of glass shattering from the living room.

  “I’m sorry!” That was Louie.

  The response was so low I couldn’t hear it. I flipped the flame off the stove, ready to go and make sure everything was okay. I’d barely turned around when Trip appeared in the kitchen. “Louie’s all right, but you got a vacuum or something? There was a glass cup on the coffee table…”

  And it got knocked over.

  Reaching under the sink, I pulled out the little handheld vacuum my parents had bought me years ago and started toward Trip, but Dallas appeared behind him, his attention focused downward. It wasn’t until he shouldered past the blond man that I saw his hands. They were cupped together and in them were shards of glass along with a decent amount of blood pooling in those wide palms.

  “I got it,” Trip said, taking the vacuum from me as I watched Dallas make his way toward the trash can.

  “Jesus Christ. Let me see your hand.” I went after him.

  “I’m all right. It’s only a cut,” he answered with his back to me.

  “There’s blood all over you. You’re not all right.” I stopped right behind him, too close when he turned around to face me, one hand still holding the other.

  “I’m fine,” the stubborn-ass insisted. “I tried to save it, but it shattered in my hand.”

  Maybe he was fine and maybe he’d had a lot worse in his life, but I couldn’t help myself.

  “Let me see it. I promise I won’t stick my hand down your pants,” I told him, only half joking.

  The look he gave me almost made me feel like I was getting called to the principal’s office, but I didn’t take my words back or refocus my gaze. That was what he got for thinking something so stupid about me. He must have understood, because he didn’t say a word.

  Without asking for his permission, I wrapped my fingers around his wrist and pulled him toward the sink.

  He let me.

  When I shoved his hand under the tap, him standing slightly behind my side at an angle, he still didn’t move or say a word as the cold water hit his wound. I hovered my face over the cut that sliced around the front of his thumb. “Let me make sure there’s no glass in there,” I offered. “It might hurt.”

  “I’m fi—“ He groaned and grunted as I pressed on the sides of the wound and pinched them together.

  I bet he was fine.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered as I did it again, watching blood pool and stream out, swirling in the empty, metal sink, the water diluting the red.

  Dallas let out a low groan deep in his throat again.

  “I’m so sorry, but I need to do it again.”

  “No, it’s—” That third time I did it, he cleared his throat, and I couldn’t help but cluck my tongue to keep from grinning as I stopped what I was doing and let the cut sit under the faucet for a second before adding a drop of hand soap and dabbing it around the wound, rinsing it off as gently as I could. He cleared his throat once more, and that time I couldn’t help but glance up at him. His face was maybe three inches away; his arm pulled so far away from his body it was like I was forcing him to hug me around one side. Up close, I could see the lines at his eyes clearly and his sun-weathered face perfectly. How old was he exactly?

  “Are you laughing at me?” he asked in a low voice as I reached to turn off the water and grab a paper towel afterward.

  I didn’t even try to bullshit him. “I told you it was going to hurt,” I explained as I dabbed at the skin around his poor thumb, trying to dry it. “You have thick calluses.” I glanced up at him one more time. His gaze was on his hand, thankfully. “Are you a mechanic like Trip?” I doubted it since I’d seen the ladder and other tools on the back of his truck before.

  Those hazel eyes flicked in my direction, so close I could see the golden ring around the pupil. I turned back to his hand. His voice was gruff. “No. I do home renovation jobs. Painting and flooring mostly.”

  That explained the paint-stained clothes I’d seen him in. “That’s nice. On your own?”

  “Mostly,” he groaned low as I touched the top of his cut.

  “You don’t ever accidentally hurt yourself on the job?”

  “No. I know what I’m doing.” Someone sounded insulted.

  Dropping my gaze to look back at his hand, I let out a snort. “Not around sharp objects by the look of it. Hold on for a second so I can put a Band-Aid on you.”

  “I don’t need a Band-Aid,” he tried to argue in that husky voice of his as I let go of him. The sound of the handheld vacuum turning on in the living room had us both glancing in that direction.

  “You need one,” I insisted, even as I reached into one of the kitchen drawers and pulled out one of the many small first aid kits I had hidden around the house in case of emergencies. “You’re still bleeding. At least leave it on for today, please? I feel really bad. I knew I should have moved that glass earlier and I didn’t.”

  His sigh was long, and he was giving me a flat look with that not-so-plain face when I glanced at him. Someone was not amused by my request. “Sure” was the word that came out of his mouth reluctantly, but his face said a different word completely.

  Not wanting to waste any time before he changed his mind, I went up to him. He was so tall the bottom of his butt was pressed to the counter. I set the ki
t aside and pulled out a jar of honey from one of the cabinets. If Dallas thought it was strange that I was bringing it out and opening it, he didn’t say a word.

  His fingertips were really rough and callused as I flipped my palm up to hold his hand in place. His fingers stretched out past the tops of my own. His hand was so much wider and almost as tan as mine; you could barely see my hand beneath his. Giving him a quick, reassuring smile that wasn’t exactly returned, I scooped out a drop of honey and set it on his cut with the tip of the butter knife I’d used, still holding him steady.

  “Louie’s allergic to first aid cream. He gets a rash and blisters from it, so I don’t bother buying it anymore,” I explained. With a skill I’d picked up after taking care of so many of the boys’ cuts, I unpeeled the paper off the bandage with one hand and carefully wrapped it around his thumb, the pad of my thumb brushing against the side of his injured one, my other fingers dancing across his hard skin.

  His question came out of the blue. “What happened to your finger?”

  I blinked and glanced at my own hands. It took me a second to find the finger he was talking about, and I flexed it. There was a ragged line about a half-inch long on the index finger of my left hand from where I’d cut myself with my shears during a haircut two days ago. “I cut it at work.” And it had bled like a bitch.

  “What did you put on it?” he asked, obviously taking in the goopy line along the seam of the wound.

  “Super glue. It works like a charm, but yours isn’t deep enough to need it,” I explained, my attention downward. “I’m really sorry about your cut.”

  “It was an accident,” he replied, sounding really close to me.

  That had me lifting my head, grimacing. “Still, I’m sorry.”

  Those hazel eyes were even and steady on my boring brown ones. He was probably six inches away from me, tops. He drew his hand away from mine and took a step back. “You don’t have anything to be sorry about.”

  The smile I gave him was so tight it made my cheeks ache. “All right. If you insist.” I tilted my head toward the stove. Sometimes friendships were built on baby steps, weren’t they? He could have said he didn’t want to come over when Trip invited him, and he could have pretended he didn’t have an Xbox for Louie to play on. He was trying, and I damn well was, too. I could do this. “How do you want your steak cooked? Burnt, perfect, or pink?”

  His mouth twisted to the corner as he blinked. “Burnt.”

  “Burnt it is,” I said, turning to face the stove.

  There was a moment of silence before he asked, “We good?”

  Of course, I turned to look at him over my shoulder. “Yeah, we are.” I blinked right back at him. “If I do anything to make you uncomfortable, just let me know. I don’t really have a verbal filter.” I thought about it for a second and added, “And I’m a little touchy-feely, but I don’t mean anything by it, so just tell me. It’s not a big deal. I won’t cry. I’ll tell you if I have a problem with something.”

  Dallas made a sound that might have been a snort. “I’m getting that.”

  I smiled awkwardly and maybe a bit tightly at him then turned back to face the stove when his question came.

  “Since we’re good, can I ask why you have Pop-Tarts in your back pocket?”

  Chapter Ten

  “Josh, I swear to God—”

  “I’m coming!”

  I did the sign of the cross with one hand, eyeing the face of my cell phone with a grumble. We were running fifteen minutes late, and while I didn’t have to be at work until eight forty-five, I still hated Josh and Lou getting to school after it started. Rushing drove me bonkers, even though I seemed to be running behind half the time anyway. More like three-fourths of the time if I was going to be totally honest with myself. And if I was going to be even more honest with myself, this whole not-getting-places-on-time business didn’t start until the boys became mine.

  “Joshua!” I yelled just as Louie lifted his red school Polo shirt up from his spot next to me, showing the empty space where a belt needed to be. “Goo, you forgot your belt.”

  He looked down like he didn’t believe me and immediately took off down the hall back toward his room with his shoulders stooped. That should have told me what kind of day it was going to be. Louie didn’t usually walk anywhere like he was headed for his execution.

  “Joshua Ernesto Casillas,” I hollered again, two seconds away from losing it. I’d woken him up at the same time I always did. He’d even stood up and started putting his pants on right in front of me before I left the room, but by the time fifteen minutes had passed and he still hadn’t come out of there, I had gone to check on him, only to find him asleep again, sitting on the mattress with his pants at his knees in only his tighty-whities.

  “I said I’m coming!”

  “You also told me last week you were going to stop ‘resting your eyes’ after I woke you up, but from the looks of it, that hasn’t happened either,” I snapped, gripping the very edges of my patience.

  There was a pause before, “I’m sorry!” What a faker.

  He should be sorry, but I knew I needed to accept his apology before he stopped giving them. I was worried, if I guilt-tripped him too much, at some point it would stop being effective. “I forgive you but come on, man! Chop, chop!”

  Two seconds later, the older brother followed the younger one down the hall, clutching two backpacks, two jackets, and a baseball bag between them. The Larsens were taking him to batting practice tonight. I waved them on, locking the door behind them as we basically all ran toward the car… until Josh stopped and threw his hands up. “I forgot my helmet!”

  Oh my God.

  “What happened to checking off your list?” I asked him.

  “I was trying to hurry!” was his excuse.

  The look I gave him went pretty much ignored as I tossed the keys in his direction, lunging like I was going to give him a wedgie as he ran back to the house. Turning back to face Louie so I could tell him he might as well get into the car while we waited, I stopped and took in the little boy standing a few feet away. Did he look pale or was I imagining it? And were there bags under his eyes or was I imagining that too?

  “You okay, Lou?” I asked him, frowning.

  He wasn’t looking at me when I questioned him, but his blue eyes swung to me and he nodded the most unconvincing nod I’d ever seen.

  “Are you sure? Did you sleep bad?” The longer I took him in, the worse he looked.

  “Yeah,” he answered, scrunching up that adorable nose for a moment. “My head hurts.”

  I’d heard that excuse before from Josh. “A little or a lot?”

  He shrugged.

  Well, it couldn’t be that bad if he wasn’t complaining. “Can you try to go to school?”

  He nodded.

  In my gut, I knew that was a weird way for him to respond. Josh was the body language one of the two; Lou usually said whatever was on his mind. But I still dropped to a knee and gave him a hug, touching his cool forehead and cooler cheeks. His coloring was off, but he wasn’t warm. His arms wrapped around my neck and he gave me a squeeze.

  By the time Josh came back, Lou was already buckled into the booster seat that he hated and I had just slammed his door shut. Josh tossed the keys over and I asked just to be sure, “Did you check that the front door really closed?”

  He shot me a look as he opened the other passenger door. “Yes.”

  “Okay, attitude.” He made it seem like he hadn’t left it unlocked before. Jesus.

  “Tia, your purse,” Louie mentioned in a soft voice the minute I opened the driver side door to get in.

  My—

  Damn it. I’d left it inside.

  Ignoring the smug look I would bet an ovary Josh was throwing my way, I ran back to the house, in and out of it in less than two minutes. As I jogged toward the car, I spotted that big Ford pickup backing out of the driveway. I waved, not sure if Dallas had even seen me or not.

  At the
ir school fifteen minutes later, I had to get out of the car and go with them to the principal’s office to get tardy passes, earning a snarky comment from the secretary who had to write the notes about how important it was for “children to get to school on time.” Like she never occasionally ran late. Ugh.

  My day didn’t get any better once I got to work.

  Sean had shown up to work over an hour late, complaining about how he wasn’t feeling well and wasn’t sure he’d be able to stay all day, and put me on edge. When my cell started vibrating at nearly noon, I was in the middle of a wash and couldn’t answer. It wasn’t until an hour later, in-between appointments, when my phone started vibrating again that I was able to answer. My mom’s name flashed across the screen. Eyeing my coworker and his customer out of the corner of my eye, I headed outside.

  “Bueno?”

  “Diana, I’ve tried calling you three times,” my mom hissed, catching me totally off guard.

  “I’m at work, Mamá. I can’t pick up the phone if I have a customer,” I replied, frowning and wondering what was up with her. She knew all of this. I wouldn’t call her while she was working and get all bent out of shape if she didn’t answer.

  “Si, pues maybe you can get a job where you can,” she said in Spanish, her tone exasperated and pretty damn brutal.

  “I don’t think jobs like that exist,” I replied, wondering what I’d done to deserve another bad attitude so soon.

  She obviously didn’t see the truth in my words because the attitude she called me with went nowhere. “Maybe if you would have gone to college like we wanted you to—”

  Oh, fuck my life. It had been at least a month since the last time she’d given me this talk. It didn’t matter that I did okay at a job I enjoyed and was pretty damn good at. It also didn’t matter that I had only once asked to borrow money from my parents soon after I’d moved out; I hadn’t gotten a degree. What had I been thinking? She brought up me not going to college at least three times a year, if I was lucky. If I wasn’t lucky, it came up once a month or more.